


Power Dance

by ConstanceComment



Series: Coeur de Loup [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Aggressively 80s Disco Music, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Case Fic, F/M, Hair Kink, I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, M/M, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Unexplained Backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstanceComment/pseuds/ConstanceComment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert's hair is mostly black, with prominent veins of silver starting to show through as they all get older. He keeps it long, neatly pulled into a queue, and wears it beneath a hat. It looks good, dashing, even, and Valjean is mostly in complete disbelief that Javert hasn't gotten himself killed yet because of it.</p><p>That has to be dangerous, right? There's no way that's safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hey, [more Eighties](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6afFUasWaI).
> 
> So, I thought this was going to take me longer to do, but my flight (along with all the other morning flights on the airline) got cancelled after I woke up at four am to catch it. I’m irritated and my options are either flip tables and get the other passengers to declare a barricade, punch a TSA cop in the taint, or write fic. Seeing as I don’t want to get shot today, I’ve taken option number three. Enjoy the fruits of my rage-induced labor.
> 
> Also: Guys we're a drop down tag option now! I'm so excited!

Javert wears his hair too long to be safe in their line of work.

It worries Valjean constantly, though only when he has the time or occasion to think about it. Despite its danger, Valjean rarely has the opportunity to notice just how unnecessarily hazardous his partner’s long hair is. Even though it could be easily grabbed by any monster with hands and used as a convenient handle by which to grab Javert from behind, Javert rarely finds himself so grabbed and as such Valjean finds himself letting the matter slip his mind. Most often Valjean has bigger concerns than how Javert wears his hair, such as finding new brake fluid for the Gamma after a particularly interesting car chase with a witch on the run that involved nearly driving the Gamma off a bridge in pursuit of their prey.

To put things bluntly, Valjean normally does not care about Javert’s hair. He is not as preoccupied with it as Fantine is, though Valjean does appreciate the way it frames Javert’s face when the former inspector rides him.

But (and the but is significant), there are times when something happens, or nearly happens, and Valjean on these occasions Valjean worries terribly about Javert, and the threat his long hair poses to his continued safety while hunting.

For example, there was the time in Espere a year ago when Valjean and Javert found themselves in close quarters with a wraith. The monster had gone reaching for Javert’s ponytail, looking to catch him by the scalp and slide its spike into the former inspector’s brain. Javert, of course, had ducked the swing. His reflexes are sharp despite his age, time only sharpening his skills, and the wraith was at best a brawler where Javert has always been more of a whirlwind made of teeth than a man when he fights.

The wraith had gone down on the hospital floor in a tangled mess of limbs after Javert cracked it across the back of the head with his hands weaved together to create a club of his fists. Javert had followed the monster down as it stumbled, planting a knee on its chest as Javert plunged his truly wicked silver knife into the wraith’s chest. The monster had smoked and burned as it died, the heirloom hunters’ silver ravaging the corruption inherent in the creature’s flesh. Javert was unharmed, in the end, and when he looked up at Valjean, his face was streaked with blood and ash, none of it his, wearing a smile that was habitual to Javert at the end of the hunt and was known to strike terror in the hearts of criminals, monsters, and small children. Nothing makes Valjean’s partner happier than catching his prey, and Valjean knew then that he should have been celebrating along with Javert, but all he could think of was Javert’s black-gray hair sliding through the wraith’s grasping fingers.

Javert had been smiling at him, which was uncommon enough, but Valjean had been paralyzed. They came so close to death so often that Valjean was mostly inured to the idea, but sometimes moments broke through, shattering his numbness to the concept. This had been one such moment. Javert had smiled at him and Valjean had panicked, and stared at Javert in abject horror for a moment or so.

“What?” Javert had asked, smile dimming somewhat. “Is it still alive? Do I have some on my face?” Javert had squinted suspiciously at Valjean. “Don’t tell me you got some of its crazy in your system,” he had demanded, and Valjean shook his head mutely in response. Satisfied, Javert had stood, wiping his knife on his patched old greatcoat.

“That’s going to need a tarp,” Javert had said, looking appraisingly at what was left of the wraith’s corpse.

“Probably more of a dust pan,” Valjean had joked feebly, to which Javert had smiled, the whole incident already swept under the rug, metaphorically and otherwise.

But the worry persisted.

Driving away from a banshee hunt in Bernot, the worry surfaced again, turning over and over in Valjean’s mind with the wheels of the Gamma as he took her back to Paris.

Bernot was not even a close call. Banshees are usually small fare for the two of them, a more specialized, angry sort of ghost. Neither Valjean nor Javert have any sort of feelings towards the undead, despite Fantine’s abject hatred of all things vampiric. Still, the case was a long one. The banshee was not violent, per se, simply restless, determined to oust her killer before she passed on. While Javert and Valjean often bickered over correct hunting procedure, this time the two of them were in complete agreement. A murderer of the innocent should never walk free, and as the two of them had it in their power to send a killer to jail, they would. Valjean primarily wished to help the poor woman pass on, and Javert primarily saw a murderer still walking about unfettered by chains as a personal offense, but they were united in their ultimate goal, as they so often were in their long partnership.

The plan had been to engineer a confession, an idea to which Javert took like a particularly blood-thirsty duck to water. Javert’s sense of professionalism and his intense need to unravel mysteries as he found them had been given an outlet greater than normal while on a hunt, and it seemed that all of the former inspector’s great loves had been condensed into one case. Justice, police work, the chase, and the puzzle solving all neatly encompassed in one singular caper.

Impersonating an officer of the law was a trick that Javert had never needed to be taught, and one that Valjean had perfected after years on the run from Javert, much to the former inspector’s chagrin as it meant that most of the conman’s assumed habits and mannerisms belonged originally to Javert himself. 

“It’s like staring in a mirror,” Javert had tried to explain, “you do this thing with your hands—“ Javert gestured futilely, before throwing up his hands. “It’s just fucking creepy, okay?” He had grumbled, and Valjean had tried very hard not to laugh.

Still, between “inspectors” Leblanc and Lanoire, evidence was quickly gathered, the Bernot police being more than obliging to hand over their autopsy reports and other findings from the suicide case of the young Mlle. Abilard over to the two distinguished older inspectors from the Paris homicide office.

While Javert had worked through the case files, harassing the local enforcement agency Valjean had gone off to question the locals, being somewhat more suited to asking gently pointed questions to the friends and family of the deceased than his more generally abrasive partner. Valjean, while socially awkward, had a firm grasp of acting the part of the concerned yet suitably distant figure of authority thanks to his tenure as mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer years ago. Further, his sympathy for the family was not dulled in any way by his ulterior motives; Valjean truly did want justice for the young Mlle. Abilard, and not only because the banshee she left behind was terrorizing her hometown. As a hunter, Valjean recognized that they could not save every victim of the devouring night, but as a man, he was glad of any opportunity presented to him by which he could make amends for the dead.

As the hunt progressed, Valjean began to wonder if they should even call it that. Mlle. Abilard’s head had been sliced clean from her shoulders according to the autopsy report, but other than that there appeared to be nothing truly strange about the case. Emily Abilard was a perfectly normal girl, it seemed. Her only oddity was a love for old books, and the rather large insurance policy she had taken out on herself after her father had died in a car crash about a year or so back.

In the end, this clue was what led Valjean and Javert to Mlle. Fontaine, Mlle. Abilard’s former girlfriend. While they weren’t sure how Fontaine had taken Emily’s head from her shoulders, all signs pointed towards Fontaine being the killer, as the money would still go to her, the breakup too recent to see a change in insurance beneficiaries. When enough evidence had been compiled, the Bernot officers producing corroborating evidence that they had not thought to examine in such a context before, much to Javert’s professional annoyance. Fontaine was led away, and the case seemed to be wrapping up rather anticlimactically, much to Javert’s disappointment and Valjean’s silent relief. Of course, Valjean, at least, should have known that such occasions are always too good to be true.

However, what neither Valjean nor Javert had counted on was Fontaine’s current boyfriend arriving at the scene, ready to attack the officers who had engineered his girlfriend’s arrest and confession.

The man had pulled a knife. Which was probably unwise, as no one should ever bring a knife to a gun fight, and the man had just engaged with a small battalion of police officers, but pull a knife he did, and neither Valjean, Javert, nor the two official police officers they were with had quite been prepared for it. Valjean and Javert, for all the former’s paranoia, had assumed the case to be cut and dry.

From the evidence they had gathered to that point, all signs had indicated that Mlle. Abilard’s death was a simple murder, no more and no less than a slaying for monetary gains when her life insurance policy was called into the benefit of Mlle. Fontaine. Save for Mlle. Abilard’s banshee, there was very little of the supernatural at play in the town. On his search through the town, Valjean had found just enough residual magic to indicate that Bernot was near a ley-line, a fact of which Valjean had already been aware. There was no indicator in any sense that foul play of a more mystical sort was involved at all, outside of course, of Mlle. Abilard’s suspicious headwound. There were no sudden shifts in behavior in town residents, no reported unrest in the wildlife or housepets. For all appearances, Bernot was clean, or at least, so the two hunters had assumed until Fontaine’s boyfriend had stormed the site of the arrest wielding a knife that practically shone with magic, grabbing Javert by the silvering hair.

Valjean’s heart had nearly stopped at the sight. Then, rather suddenly, it had resumed its beating, and attempted to beat itself right through is ribcage.

“Ah,” Javert had said, seemingly unfazed even as his attacker pulled savagely down on his ponytail, forcing Javert to lean backwards and down in a strange folded position that was obviously uncomfortable so that his attacker could position his knife across Javert’s neck, “it appears that I am caught. Good for you!” Javert congratulated him. “M. Janus, yes? Mlle. Fontaine’s kept man?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Janus hissed between his teeth, pressing the knife closer to Javert’s neck. His knuckles were white around the handle, and Valjean’s eye picked out small details; the rings glinting on Janus’s second and fourth finger; the stones, red and black that glittered in them respectively. Valjean’s mind spun through possible enchantment configurations, thinking of metals, of stones, trying to find a better way to react to Javert’s predicament other than blind panic.

“If you wish,” Javert had said simply, “I doubt that I’ll have to say anything at all, at this point. Accosting an officer of the law with a knife? Oh, I’d say that you’re in a heap of shit all by yourself, M. Janus.”

“Shut up!” Janus hissed again, tugging once on Javert’s hair. At the slight wince Javert gave, the two other officers escorting her to the jailhouse began to reach for their sidearms, obviously attempting to come to the aid of a fellow officer.

“Touch those guns and I’ll slice his damn head off!” Janus roared, and the officers grudgingly pulled their hands from the weapons. One readjusted his grip on Mlle. Fontaine, and Janus seemed to zero in on the motion. “Okay,” he said, swallowing, his eyes wild and wide as he shifted his grip on Javert’s hair, winding his hand in the former inspector’s ponytail. “Okay!” Janus called again, steadier this time, but only slightly. “Look— you let her go, and I’ll let him go, you got it? Otherwise— otherwise I’ll kill him!”

At these words, Javert laughed. As usual, Javert’s laughter was not a pretty thing, much too harsh and grating to be anything other than deeply frightening to most people.

“Kill me!” Javert crowed. “With that little pigsticker? I’ve seen sharper _parlor tricks_ , boy. Though that’s an idea,” Javert continued as Valjean edged closer to them both, “a parlor trick. Tell me, Janus, do you have delusions of grandeur? Did you sell something you shouldn’t have, make a bargain for power you couldn’t pay back?”

As Javert continued to speak, Janus began to shake, his eyes darting from Fontaine to the knife to Javert, who was carefully slack in his grip, ready to spring the moment he saw an opening. All the while, Janus’s eyes were off of Valjean, and the conman used his chance to inch ever closer to his partner, his own eyes focused on the enchanted knife at Javert’s neck.

“Mlle. Abilard’s life insurance policy won’t buy back your souls, you know,” Javert said quietly. “One way or another the crossroads collect, and you can’t outrun the hounds of hell—“

“I said shut up!” Janus bellowed, and Valjean took his chance, lunging for the witch as Javert dropped stonelike from Janus’s loosened hold. Once Javert was clear, Valjean snaked a hand out to catch the witch’s wrist, and bent his hand back to secure the knife. Howling with pain Janus lashed out with his free hand, a strike Valjean neatly ducked, stepping back from the man as he slipped the rings off Janus’s fingers with a pickpocket’s touch. As he slid the stones in to his pocket, Valjean could feel the faint shiver of magic that ran through them, dark and tainted.

After that, the other officers wasted little time in securing Janus as well, and without their artifacts, both of the witches were off to jail for a trial. Moments later, Valjean and Javert accepted handshakes from the Bernot officers, then hightailed it to the Gamma before anyone could check to think their backgrounds.

Now, the drive back to Paris is tense. Valjean turns on his cassettes in an attempt to pretend that the silence that has fallen between them is as comfortable as it normally is, and not the awkward, tangled mess they find themselves trapped inside the Gamma with.

That Javert is a reckless man singularly unconcerned with his own life is not a new fact for Valjean, being something that became readily apparent even while Javert was in his employment back in Montreuil-sur-Mer. For all that Javert has long been preoccupied with Valjean’s safety, he has never been so for himself or with his own. Much as it occasionally irritates him, Valjean has learned to simply be careful enough for both of them, his paranoia compensating more often than not for Javert’s recklessness.

At the same time, Valjean acknowledges that Javert is a competent man. The fact is one of, if not the foremost of his defining traits. Valjean understands, intellectually, that if there was ever a place in the world where he was to be safe, such a spot would most likely exist somewhere behind Javert, most likely in the other half of a defensive stance. Valjean, however, is a paranoid man. While this means that he rather refuses to accept safety as anything other than an abstract concept, Valjean can nonetheless appreciate the fact that Javert has always been a defender of the society, even if the man in question would not phrase it so himself. Still, there is only so much that Valjean can ignore his paranoia until he must make allowances for it. Often these allowances have saved his life, so rarely does Valjean choose to let them go completely unheeded.

But Javert’s hair was a small thing, before now. A slight annoyance, a fact that twinged at Valjean’s sense for dangers potential and existent, but no more. On the drive home, Valjean tried to dismiss it as such once again, but still the thought lingered: Javert’s hair is simply too long to be safe.

Now, home at last in Fantine’s Parisian apartment, Valjean cannot shake the matter. The insistent tide of what-if, what-if is hammering away at his conscience. Behind his eyes Valjean sees Janus’s knife go through Javert’s throat and spine as if they were nothing so much as warm butter, sees red blood run down olive skin and feels the need to wretch, or to bolt from the apartment completely.

Valjean finds himself hovering. He reassures himself several times the first night that Javert is still breathing, spending most of the night awake. At one point Valjean accidentally wakes Fantine this way, reaching over her so often. Not bothering to so much as open an eye, she grabs at Valjean’s outstretched arm and pulls it down across her bare chest before settling her own arms across it, effectively pinning Valjean’s arm.

“Go the fuck to sleep,” she grumbles. The words are nearly unintelligible, and if Valjean didn’t have over half a decade’s practice of decoding her sleepy mumbles, they would have been lost completely. As it is, Valjean just sighs and obliges, knowing well enough that Fantine will not hesitate to bodily kick him from the bed if he continues to fidget throughout the night.

In the morning, Valjean is no better. The worry persists, and no matter how Valjean tries to banish it the worry persists in persisting. It drives him near to madness, and Javert as well since Valjean continues to check on him throughout the day, practically hovering over the former inspector as he putters about Fantine’s apartment.

By the time that Valjean tries to skip his afternoon walk to mind Javert, the inspector finally snaps.

“Could you please _stop_?” Javert hisses, steel eyes flashing. 

“Have you ever thought,” Valjean interrupts, “about cutting your hair?” The question is lame even to his own ears. Internally, Valjean cringes, and waits for his partner’s response.

Javert looks at him with a frown, wearing a tilt of his eyebrows that in the language of old lovers and those who have spent the better parts of the lives together that clearly indicates that Javert thinks Valjean has gone completely mad.

“It’s just,” Valjean starts, then shrugs helplessly, spreading his palms. “It’s dangerous?” He tries, and Javert’s frown deepens.

“Have you honestly never had anyone grab your ponytail before?” Valjean asks. There’s no way it’s possible. Just on the weight of statistics, Javert’s been a fighter since childhood. 

“They’d have to get behind me first,” Javertsnorts, smug and self-confident when it comes to his abilities. “As if I’d let anyone get the drop on me.”

“You’re kidding me,” Valjean says flatly. “There’s no way—“

“Would you like to test me?” Javert challenges him, eyes glinting in the afternoon light through the apartment windows.

“No!” Valjean exclaims, exasperated. He wishes Javert would stop treating everything as a competition. Javert’s reckless enough already; Valjean doesn’t want them fighting each other, not anymore. Valjean would like to admit that he wishes that Javert would stop viewing him as a challenge every time Valjean did something that disagreed with Javert, but his mind skitters away from the reasons, and the thought falls apart before Valjean can articulate it.

Rarely, does Valjean let himself think long on Toulon. In passing, certainly, as it is hard to escape the history written into his skin and embodied by the man he shares his bed with. But Valjean would rather avoid dwelling on his imprisonment, and so he does, his well-trained mind refusing to hold the thoughts until he sleeps. And despite their prevalence, Valjean has learned to deal with his nightmares, or at least how to weather the storm that they represent.

“I don’t doubt your talent, Javert,” Valjean allows, “I’m just worried about your safety. We already take enough risks, don’t you think?”

Javert’s frown changes almost (but not quite) imperceptibly. If Valjean hadn’t been watching his face instead of the road, he’d have missed it entirely, but the small shift speaks volumes in Javert’s personal language of silence and significant uses of the eyebrows.

Pressing his advantage, however slim it may be, Valjean continues.

A fortnight and a hunt later, and the thought is still lodged in Valjean’s brain. On their latest hunt, Javert had tied his hair into a bun, or at least tried to, tucking it all beneath his hat. Of course, both had been dislodged as soon as the first fight began, the hat tumbling to the floor and Javert’s hair falling loose when he had tackled the rogue familiar they had been tracking through Nice. While Valjean had appreciated the concession for what it was, the end results were nearly worse when Javert became practically blinded when his hair fell into his eyes.

After the hunt, Javert had pulled his hair back into its usual queue, an air of frustration permeating the Gamma as Valjean once more turned on his cassettes to break the silence.

Javert’s ponytail is practically taunting him at this point, dangling there just at the edge of his reach, waiting to doom them both. Valjean understands, on some level, that this is just his paranoia talking. On the other hand, he’s still struck repeatedly by the urge to just grab a pair of scissors and cut off the damn thing while Javert sleeps the next time they go out on a more leisurely hunt.

After spending yet another night in an uncomfortable motel paralyzed by indecision, Valjean gives up the impulse for the moment. Upon returning to Paris, Valjean eventually voices his follicle-based concerns to Fantine over the afternoon news.

Valjean honestly couldn’t care less about politics, having gotten his fill nearly a decade a go when he had to live through the bureaucracy himself, but Fantine, at least, seems interested in the proceedings. Privately Valjean thinks that she treats the nightly news the same way that Javert treats a good match of mixed martial arts or a particularly inaccurate procedural drama; with a fair deal of shouting and excitement. Between Javert and Fantine, Valjean can think of at least five separate occasions where they’ve had to replace Fantine’s television due to fits of rage, and that’s discounting the incident with the poltergeist and the recording studio.

“Don't you think Javert should cut his hair?” Valjean tries, appealing to their shorn-haired lover.

Fantine stares at Valjean, puzzled. The conman hurries to elaborate. “He keeps it so long— someone could very easily grab it in a fight—” when Fantine fails to understand, the expression on her face still most blank, Valjean switches tactics. “Look, you cut your hair for a reason, right?”

“Yes, because I prefer it shorter,” Fantine interrupts him, frowning. “It’s less high maintenance that way.”

“Yes! Exactly!” Valjean crows. “I’ve been trying to convince Javert to cut his hair short lately,” Valjean explains, “but I’ve been having trouble explaining the situation to him when he won’t let me get a word in edgewise. At this point, I’m about to go after his hair in his sleep, and just—” Valjean makes an aborted motion with his fingers, miming the motions of scissors through hair.

Fantine looks at Valjean in abject horror. “Jean, if you come anywhere near Javert's hair with a pair of scissors, the next time you'll see a pair is when I'm coming for yours.” Fantine promises emphatically. She pauses, before clarifying; “I am of course referring to your testicles.”

Valjean flinches. “Yes, thank you Fantine, message received.”

Fantine levels a scrutinizing glare on the con. “I'm serious Valjean, if you so much as touch a hair on that man's head—”

Valjean throws up his hands in defeat, and no small amount of fear for his genitals. “Fine, fine! God forbid I worry about my partner’s safety while on the hunt…” Valjean grumbles, Fantine’s glare abating somewhat at his words, her expression melting from hostile to thoughtful as Valjean stalks away. He plans to take a walk to clear his head, and someone has to get more bread for dinner, so Valjean might as well go with purpose. Stealing Javert’s enormous greatcoat, Valjean turns its collar up into the spring chill, and heads for their neighborhood boulangerie, grousing under his breath the whole way.

When he gets back, two fresh loaves in hand, Valjean finds Javert sprawled on the floor at the foot of Fantine’s chair in what passes for the apartment’s living room. The former inspector’s eyes are shut in bliss as he rests the curve of his neck on Fantine’s knee, their lover’s hands buried in Javert’s graying locks.

Puzzled, Valjean puts the bread down in the kitchen before heading into the living room. Fantine smiles up at him as he approaches, and in her hands Valjean catches small glints of light. More confused than ever, Valjean hangs up the greatcoat, takes off his shoes, and pads over on the threadbare carpet before planting himself on the floor next to Javert. On closer inspection, Valjean notices that Fantine isn’t merely playing with Javert’s hair; she’s weaving it.

Fantine has split Javert’s ponytail into three separate strands, and is weaving it deftly into a standard braid. It’s nothing special, until Valjean sees something catch the light in Fantine’s hand again. Valjean’s eyes widen.

“Is that—?” He asks, startled. In Fantine’s hands she holds a strip of leather studded with thin, wicked looking spikes, and is busy weaving it into Javert’s braid.

Fantine grins at him around her missing teeth. “You bet. The sisters back in Montreuil used to use these whenever they went out hunting. Simplice used to have me help her fix her hair sometimes. Some of it’s silver, some of it’s cold iron,” Fantine explains, “that way no matter what grabs him, it’s likely to come away hurt even if it’s not human.”

Without opening his eyes, Javert rumbles; “you can stop worrying, Valjean. If it’s good enough for the sisters, then it will have to serve for me.” For all the world, Javert looks like a contented cat, sprawled against the bottom of Fantine’s chair. Valjean practically expects him to start purring.

It is this image that does him in; Valjean cannot help but laugh, and Javert cracks open an eye to glare at him lazily, which only makes the comparison stronger. As Valjean dissolves into helpless laughter, Fantine tries to stifle her sympathetic giggles while she finishes Javert’s braid.

The next time Javert gets his hair pulled, the nixie who grabs hold comes away with a hand full of smoking puncture wounds. Javert and Fantine are both unbearably smug for days afterward, and Valjean cannot even bring himself to be annoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken this fic off of the 2012 listing, and I'm going to leave it that way. There's basically zero movie musical in her by now.
> 
> Probably totally stole the banshee plot off an actual episode of Supernatural, at least in part. I haven’t even watched that season, so whatever I ripped off I did probably by accident, as all I did was scan the superwiki entry on banshees to make sure I didn’t wreck the preexisting lore.
> 
> The Curious Case of the Banshees in Bernot sounds like it could be a Sherlock Holmes title. Sorry Conan Doyle. You don’t deserve this at all. You already get enough grief from your own fandom. No apologies to Hugo; he would probably appreciate the alliteration, and criticize me for not finding a way to a) make the title longer and more explanatory, or b) fit a pun in there.


End file.
